


Your voice along my spine

by ariadnes_string



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-05
Updated: 2010-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-11 11:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well, go on then—let's hear a bit about Sherlock's sensual side." (Fiction--purely fiction!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your voice along my spine

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: written for a prompt at the [sherlockrpf kinkmeme](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockrpf/3173.html)

They should have gone home by now—everyone else had faded away already—but it had been a long day of shooting tense scenes, and Martin, at least, was still far too wired to think about going to bed yet.

Benedict was clearly coming down with something, was sniffling into a handful of tissues, and had smoked too many cigarettes besides; his voice was shot—down to a deep rasp that sent a shameful thrill down Martin's spine every time he drawled his thanks to whoever took away the empty glasses. A good friend would have packed his co-star off to bed with a hot toddy by now—but instead, Martin came back from the bar with a new round of drinks, and asked, for the sheer bloody-minded pleasure of it,

"Most of the world thinks Sherlock's asexual, did you know that?"

"Martin," Benedict said, eyes half-closed, head lolling against the wall behind him, "you really should stay off the internet."

"You don't agree? Since you're an expert now, and all."

Benedict slitted his eyes open. "I don't," he said, voice more vibration than sound, "Sherlock has his pleasures."

Martin snorted. "Does he? You think he's a bit kinky then?"

Benedict quirked his full lips a fraction of a degree, a secret smile, but didn't answer.

Martin considered backing off, but once started the idea was like a scab you had to pick open. "Well, go on then—let's hear a bit about Sherlock's sensual side."

Somewhat to his surprise, Benedict was drunk enough to indulge him—or at least drunk enough to have alcohol as an excuse. "To begin with," he said, "Sherlock's all about control—about calling the shots. So when he gets a bloke back to Baker Street, the first thing he has him do is strip—slowly, one piece of clothing at a time, so that he can assess the, ah, evidence."

Martin was a little surprised that Benedict pictured Sherlock with men instead of women—but perhaps not quite as surprised as he should have been.

"And then," Benedict came away from the wall, leaned over the table, drawing stripes in the condensation on his pint glass, "He'd circle around him, this naked man standing in the center of his cluttered flat, taking in his history from the way he held himself, the pattern of scars on his body. And he'd know how to make him come, just from the angle of his prick." His long fingers slashed the air in a single, eloquent gesture.

It should have been funny, the same kind of taking the piss out of their characters they'd been doing for weeks on the set. But it wasn't funny—it was—something else. Something that had Martin shifting restlessly in his chair, feeling as if his jeans were suddenly too tight.

"So Sherlock would touch him—here—here—and here." Benedict's hands wove around an imaginary body, caressing, "and that would be it for the poor bloke—he'd spill before Sherlock had even unwound his scarf."

"Mmm," Martin took a hasty gulp of beer, "glad to see you've given it some thought."

"Research, Martin, research. You need to know everything about your character."

"Quite right, I'm sure." Martin swallowed again. "What about Sherlock, then? He doesn't get off himself?"

"Ah, but he does," Benedict began, and Martin noticed he'd steepled his hands under his chin, pale eyes more awake than they'd been all night. He himself, he realized, had crossed his arms, Watson-style, defensively across his chest. "No kissing. And no fucking—well, hardly ever." The thrum of Benedict's wrecked voice sent tiny shock waves through Martin's own body. "But if he's in the proper mood, he'll have the man kneel in front of him, unzip his trousers, take him in his mouth—he always picks the ones with beautiful mouths."

"Oh," Martin said, "right," and then closed his own mouth, feeling ridiculous. He was more than half hard himself now, could feel the blood pulsing in his temples, his throat. Something about the situation—the hour, their solitude in the rapidly emptying pub, even Benedict's distinctive scent of tobacco, sweat, and incompletely removed make up, gave everything a peculiar and compelling intimacy. Drove all thoughts of Amanda and the kids out of his head. He and Benedict might have been all alone in the world.

"Sherlock loves the feeling of the man's tongue sliding over the head of his cock, his fingers cupping his balls," Benedict continued, seemingly caught up in the same spell. "It takes him a long time to climax—always has—cold-blooded as he is. But he's nothing if not intent on a goal, so he tangles his hands in the man's hair, pushes his head down, makes him finish. And finally—finally—ah—ah—achoo—"

Incongruously, wetly, magnificently, Benedict sneezed, eyes flying wide, both hands going to his nose.

The mood was definitively broken. Martin pressed a stack of serviettes into his co-star's hand, and grimaced sympathetically as Benedict blew his nose with a resounding honk.

"What am I thinking?" he asked, the real world crashing back down around him, "you should be in bed. I mean, asleep. In bed." He stumbled over the words, awkwardness finally descending. "I'll ring for a cab."

"Yes," Benedict said, "We're up too late again."

_fin_


End file.
